


Second Time Lucky

by heckofabecca



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2019-03-04 09:06:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13361271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heckofabecca/pseuds/heckofabecca
Summary: When Lothíriel makes a hasty promise to a lady in distress, she must use all her wits to keep her footing. But there's more than one type of falling...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> When my friend Hannah_jpg asked for a one-shot prompt, I offered, "How about Éomer is previously attached and she has to break _him_ up," and Hannah said, "No, I want a one-shot, YOU write that one!"
> 
> So I did!
> 
> I hope you enjoy ☺

The guest lodge in Emyn Arnen was sturdy, dark wood, built from the trees felled to clear room for the Steward’s new home. The sprawling, two-story building was on the far side of the gardens from the main stone house. By all accounts, Faramir was delighted with how the entire place had turned out—as well he might be, considering the dogged campaign to clear the woods of orcs—and Lady Éowyn had been pleased with her new home, too. The guest house in particular had been a point of pride in Faramir’s letters to Imrahil. _Never seen such a charming building_ ; those had been his words.

Lothíriel sighed as she stepped out into the morning sunlight. The gardens at Emyn Arnen were vast, and it was a healthy walk to the main house. Her family had never been forced to stay so far from their hosts, but for Faramir, her father was willing to sacrifice much. And after the troubles of last year, Lothíriel was hardly about to complain. It wouldn’t be right.

She set off through the gardens, running a hand along the tops of the tall grasses lining the path. The gardeners really had outdone themselves. This place was even more peaceful than the gardens at the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith, and those were an oasis tucked in among the bustle of the city. Here in Ithilien, everywhere was tranquil.

Lothíriel paused by a clump of lavender and knelt to breathe it in. Wonderful! She plucked a few flowers and continued on, idly twisting the stalks around her fingers. Birds were chirping, the sun was shining, and…

Someone was crying?

From somewhere to her left, quiet sobbing punctured the serenity of the gardens. Lothíriel craned her neck and looked around. She hiked up her skirts and climbed over the low hedgerow, then past a loose square of wildflowers.

On the far side, on a bench behind a willow tree, a blond lady was hunched with her face buried in her hands.

“Lady Æmma?” Lothíriel ventured.

The young woman gasped and quickly wiped her face. She spun in her seat and gave Lothíriel a strangled smile, but after a moment she turned away and began to cry again.

“Oh no! Whatever is the matter?” Lothíriel cried. She rushed to Æmma’s side and wrapped an arm around her shaking shoulders. “I do hate to see anyone upset, and I like you, so it’s even worse than usual! Please do tell me. Perhaps I can help you.”

Æmma sniffed and sat up straight. Lothíriel quickly pulled out a handkerchief, pressed it into Æmma’s hand, and murmured encouraging platitudes.

After another few minutes, Æmma looked much improved. Her brown eyes were still moist, and her nose was red, but she was no longer sniveling or crying.

“Thank you, Lady Lothíriel,” Æmma said. Her accent was as sonorous as all of the Rohirrim’s. “I am sorry to disturb your walk.”

“You needn’t be. I’m not needed anywhere for half an hour at least. I was only going to see if I could find my brothers, but I see them plenty. I’d much rather be here with you.” Lothíriel squeezed Æmma’s hand and smiled.

Æmma was a few years older than Lothíriel, perhaps twenty-four. She was the only child of Lord Aldor of Fenmark, a near region of Rohan, and one of Lady Éowyn’s chief ladies-in-waiting. Lothíriel quite like Æmma. She was witty, diligent, and bold. Imrahil had a similarly high opinion of Lord Aldor; they had met in the aftermath of the great battle outside of Minas Tirith.

“Lady Éowyn expects us both, I think,” Æmma said. She sniffed and sat back on her hands. “At least there will be people to distract me.”

“From what?”

“Ah.” Æmma sighed. She looked Lothíriel up and down.

Lothíriel inwardly squirmed, but she smoothed her expression into one she hoped was helpful and trustworthy. Æmma was recovered, but Lothíriel was curious what could possibly make her so upset. She had never seemed the crying type. And less than ten hours from the wedding, too!

“Can you keep a secret?” Æmma asked.

“I do all the time,” Lothíriel said at once. “Do you think I would be so useful to my queen if I could not?”

Æmma laughed at that, but she soon grew sullen. She pulled her long loose hair over her shoulder and began to braid it, slow and methodical.

“You know my father is the lord of Fenmark,” she started.

Lothíriel nodded. “My father thinks very highly of him.”

“Well, so he should.” Æmma gave a tight grin. “My father has made himself very useful to Éomer King. And, in his own way, to your king as well.”

That was true. Lothíriel recalled hearing Lord Aldor’s named much mentioned during discussions of some of the new trade agreements with Rohan. The agreements had been very favorable to both countries.

“Well, he has done so well for himself that he has found a man for me to marry. He told me this morning that I was as good as betrothed.” For a moment, Æmma’s expression turned calculating; Lothíriel wondered what she was thinking. But the moment passed, and Æmma’s face crumpled again. “But I do not want to marry… him.”

Lothíriel’s eyebrows shot up. “What! You are being forced to wed?” Æmma nodded; Lothíriel jumped to her feet and crossed her arms with a huff. “That is barbaric! Something must be done. No one deserves such a fate!”

Æmma, still huddled on the bench, stared up at Lothíriel with wide eyes. “But who will help me?”

“I will,” Lothíriel declared. She pursed her lips. “You said you were as good as betrothed, did you not? There will be some announcement?”

“My betrothal will be announced at tomorrow’s dinner,” Æmma said mournfully. “And my fate will be sealed.”

“Oh, come now,” Lothíriel said. She grinned, fierce and determined. “Do you think that I cannot prevent a simple betrothal? You have my word that you will go to sleep tomorrow quite free.”

“You suppose you can do it?” Æmma asked.

“Of course!”

“Would you swear it?”

Lothíriel took Æmma’s hand and bowed over it gallantly. “My lady, Lothíriel of Dol Amroth pledges on her honor that your father’s wicked plans will come to naught.” She stood and smiled expectantly down at Æmma. “Now tell me, who is the man?”

Æmma stood up and gripped Lothíriel’s shoulders. “If you do not keep to your word—”

“I will,” Lothíriel interrupted.

“If you do not keep to your word,” Æmma restarted, “tomorrow night I will be betrothed before all to Éomer. King of Rohan.”

Lothíriel’s stomach dropped. She opened her mouth, then closed it.

“Oh,” she said. She blinked. “Well. That complicates things.”

 

* * *

 

“Æmma, there you are! Come in, come in.”

Lothíriel trailed behind as Frikka, Éowyn’s other attendant, dragged Æmma into their lady’s rooms. Every seat in the solar was full of women, and Lothíriel smiled and headed over to where her mother, her aunt, and her queen sat by the window.

“Good morning, Lady Lothíriel,” Queen Arwen said. She extended a graceful white hand for Lothíriel to kiss. “I trust you slept well?”

“I did, my lady, thank you.” Lothíriel forced a smile. Arwen narrowed her eyes but said nothing. “Good morning, Naneth. Good morning, Aunt Ivriniel.”

“Quite,” Aunt Ivriniel said, though she shot Queen Arwen a shrewish look.

Lady Aeardis, Lothíriel’s mother, stood up to embrace her daughter. “You look alarmed, sweetheart,” she whispered in Lothíriel’s ear. “Do try and relax.”

Lothíriel flushed. She was trying to act natural, but there was only so calm she could be when her promise to help Æmma loomed ahead of her like a rogue wave. She extricated herself to Éowyn’s bedchamber, where Æmma and Frikka were busy fussing over their mistress’s hair.

Before she caught sight of Lothíriel, Éowyn’s face was oddly grim. She looked lovely otherwise, with a white dress in the fashion of Rohan and a linked golden belt around her hips. The transformation when she finally noticed her new guest was breathtaking. A bright, relieved smile warmed Éowyn’s pale face, and Lothíriel couldn’t help but smile back.

“Lothíriel,” Éowyn said, “come distract me. My ladies are relentless.”

“Too relentless to be dismissed, even!” Frikka said. She combed out a small section of Éowyn’s golden hair and began to plait it into a tight braid.

“I am at your service, cousin,” Lothíriel said. She perched on the edge of Éowyn’s bed and fiddled with her necklace.

“We are not cousins yet,” Éowyn reminded her. “But I am glad to be called so all the same.”

Frikka twisted the thin braid into a spiral and pinned it at the back of Éowyn’s head. After a few tugs, the little braid had transformed into a golden flower.

“That’s lovely,” Lothíriel said approvingly. “Will there be real flowers in your hair, too?”

“I had not thought of it,” Éowyn murmured. She brushed the downy hair at her temples behind her ears. “Is that common here?”

“Mostly in the country,” Lothíriel said. “I think it would be very fitting. If you like, I can pick some flowers for you later.”

Éowyn smiled, pleased. Frikka began to hum as she continued working braided flowers in Éowyn’s hair, and after a minute Æmma shot Lothíriel a sharp, urgent look which Lothíriel ignored. She could hardly fault Æmma for fretting, but Lothíriel had a plan.

Sort of.

“Éowyn,” she began, “I was wondering. How is your brother managing?”

“Éomer?” Éowyn asked, baffled. She turned curious eyes on Lothíriel. “What do you mean?”

Lothíriel gestured to the empty air between them. “You are leaving home,” she said. “I know all my family is glad of it, and my king and queen as well, but I was wondering…” She trailed off when she noticed that Frikka was staring at her with a badly concealed grin. Éowyn glanced sharply at her, and Frikka went back to her methodical braiding.

“He is glad for me, of course, but such a parting is always bittersweet.” Éowyn regarded Lothíriel with a careful consideration, not unlike the look Æmma had given her before revealing the news of her forced betrothal. As before, Lothíriel seemed to pass the test. “My brother will miss me, and I shall miss him. We had not been together so much as we were this last year. I wonder who will fare better with this change. He has a whole host of familiar faces, a familiar home… This place is beautiful, but to many, I am still a wild stranger.” Éowyn smiled, but it was a cold smile.

“Not so,” Lothíriel argued. “I say your brother shall have it worse, for he will be bereft of his most beloved sister!” She clenched her fists in the quilts. “When my kin went to war, no number of old friends could have assuaged me. My mother hardly did! All I thought of was my father and brothers.”

The memory of those months alone with her mother and aunt in Dol Amroth came back to her. Endless pacing along the beach, along the city walls and up and down the Sea-ward Tower… How many stitches had she been forced to pull out from nervous, amateurish mistakes? How many nights had she pushed aside her favorite treats with a heavy heart and queasy stomach? More than she could recall. And the burgeoning fear every time a courier was seen riding from the east—

“The war is over now,” Éowyn said, gently.

Lothíriel roused herself from her grim reverie and blinked back the sudden dampness in her eyes. “Yes, yes it is,” she said. “But there is still no joy in being parted from those you love, even if it is for a happy cause.”

Éowyn stood up and came over to embrace Lothíriel. She ran a long pale hand across Lothíriel’s dark hair. “Your words are true, yet I would not have stayed from here for the world. I hope you find such joy when you marry. Such a good heart deserves it.”

“Thank you,” Lothíriel murmured, pink-cheeked. She glanced sideways at Æmma, who looked suddenly enlightened. “I hope so too.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valar be blessed, how could she have been so foolhardy? Broken betrothals were rare enough among peasants. This one had been orchestrated by two of the most powerful men in a completely different country! What could she possibly do about it?

Lothíriel did not escape until lunchtime, when she renewed her offer to pick flowers for Éowyn’s hair. A garland might be more than Éowyn could stomach, but a few sprigs of lily-of-the-valley would do nicely, Lothíriel thought, and then her promise to Æmma came again to the forefront of her mind.

She stopped just a few steps out of the house and looked around for somewhere to sit. If she wanted to think through her conundrum, what she really needed was time, solitude, and a seat. Preferably one in the shade with some protection from the breeze. The loose hair beneath her braids was already whipping into her face.

There were no benches in easy distance, so Lothíriel picked her way through the rustling shrubs to a young tree that looked sturdy enough to lean against. She dug her toe into the dirt. It was dry. Good. No wet stains on her dress, at least. Lothíriel sat gingerly against the tree and sighed.

For the first time, she turned her full attention on her reckless pledge to Æmma.

At once, her breath hitched. She pressed her forehead against her knees, eyes wide. Valar be blessed, how could she have been so foolhardy? Broken betrothals were rare enough among peasants. This one had been orchestrated by two of the most powerful men in a completely different country! What could she possibly do about it?

Lothíriel squeezed her knees to her chest, tipped her head back against the tree, and closed her eyes. She took deep, calming breaths.

All of this panic was foolish. In the end, it didn’t matter whether she thought she could do it. She had given Æmma her word, and she would keep it. Her honor—no, her pride demanded it.

Not to mention her inner zealot. A forced marriage _was_ barbaric. No woman should have no say in her fate. There was no imagining how betrayed she would feel if her father did such to her. Æmma’s distress was not for nothing.

And yet the question remained: what could Lothíriel do? It wasn’t as though she had a direct-to-Valinor messenger pigeon that she could send off with a prayer begging the Valar to cancel the betrothal.

The Valar were out of the question, but could she call on _anyone_ for help? Æmma sprang to mind, but Lothíriel was loath to rely on her, not when she had already been cowed by her father. Lothíriel’s parents, aunt, and two of her brothers were in Emyn Arnen, but involving her parents was impossible. Her brothers? Lothíriel wasn’t sure if she could trust them to be discreet.

What of Aunt Ivriniel? No, that would never do. Her aunt was a grumbler if there ever was one, and Lothíriel doubted that Ivriniel would move past lecturing Lothíriel on her foolishness to actually provide any help.

That left no one, for Lothíriel had no desire to include any of her fellow ladies-in-waiting to Queen Arwen in such a venture. They had no cause to be involved, nor would they deserve whatever happened should someone get wind of her plan. Valar prevent such a thing! It might get back to King Éomer or Lord Aldor, and they would go to her father, and her father would reprimand her for her meddling, and…

Lothíriel shuddered. No, she was on her own. She ran her hands up and down her arms and nodded sharply. That was settled, at least. Now she just needed to figure out how in Varda’s name she was supposed to prevent the announcement tomorrow.

There were only two people who could change anything: Lord Aldor and King Éomer. Lord Aldor was a consummate middle-aged politician. He had no doubt been dealing with such matters for longer than Lothíriel had been alive. And there was no reason for Lothíriel to have anything to do with him.

King Éomer, on the other hand…

Lothíriel pursed her lips. Her father and all of her brothers had been thoroughly impressed with Rohan’s new king from their first meeting last March. They had spoken much of his valor, his skill in battle, and his love for his kin. Lothíriel suspected that Amrothos and Erchirion were so eager to come to Ithilien because Éomer would be here. She had never known them to show such an interest in weddings before. Erchirion had not even been present for their eldest brother’s wedding!

When Lothíriel had finally met Éomer upon her arrival in Emyn Arnen, she’d been impressed too, although likely for different reasons. During the last few months she’d spent waiting on Queen Arwen in Minas Tirith, many ladies who had met Éomer last year had commented on his great height and good looks. Even Queen Arwen had noted that King Éomer had a noble bearing, which was about as close as she got to saying any man was handsome. And though she had chalked some of their praise up to Éomer being a young king, all of the reports had proven true. Éomer _was_ handsome, despite the beard.

But Lothíriel had hardly spoken with Éomer beyond the regular polite greetings and meaningless exchanges one had with near-strangers. He might be great friends of her father and brothers, but he had never seen her before a few days ago. Only the most proper courtesies were to be given to his sworn friend’s prized daughter—

Lothíriel started with a gasp. Of course! She’d been a fool not to think of it at once. The one thing that was sure to end a courtship was impropriety. And she was an unattached, reasonably pretty young woman.

All she had to do was engineer a situation where Lord Aldor thought he was witnessing Éomer being improper, and then Æmma would be free.

Lothíriel mused over the many tales told of young ladies losing their virtue. She remembered with clarity the whispers about women whose names were swept under the rug and the warnings about uncouth men she’d been ordered to avoid.

With all of that at her disposal, there was no doubt she could maneuver her way into success. And she had the perfect opportunity just a few hours away: the wedding feast, when all would be giddy with joy and drink, be it Amrothian wine or Rohirric mead. It would be easy to earn a dance with Éomer—all she had to do was ask one of her brothers to bring Éomer over. And everything else would follow from there.

She sighed with relief. That settled things.

Lothíriel jumped to her feet, brushed down her skirts, and skipped off to pick some flowers, humming.

 

* * *

 

While she was heading back to Éowyn’s rooms with her bouquet, Lothíriel was waylaid by her brother Amrothos outside of the main hall.

“Lothíriel, come look!”

He dragged her inside the hall. Lothíriel slowed considerably, and a wide smile spread across her face. She wriggled out of Amrothos’s grip and rushed into the center of the room. She spun in place to get a full view.

“Oh, it’s beautiful!”

Garlands of flowers and ivy were wrapped around and hung between the hall’s thick wooden columns. Long tables lined part of the hall, leaving a good area before the dais cleared for dancing. A few minstrels were practicing one of Lothíriel’s favorite songs from Minas Tirith. And the high table was adorned with fresh flowers.

“It’s like an elven paradise,” she declared.

Amrothos laughed. “That’s pushing it a little far,” he said. “But the floor is nice and springy.” He danced over to her, took her free hand, and skipped them both to a round table near the dais laden with gifts for the couple.

Giggling, Lothíriel turned to look over the gifts. She spotted her own gift, a matching set of pewter wine goblets inlaid with pearls, and then her eyes fell on Amrothos’s gift.

“Oh, Amrothos,” she breathed.

Two painted leather boxes were stacked near the front of the table. Lothíriel set down her lilies of the valley and reached out, but glanced at her brother before touching them. He nodded with a grin.

The top box was painted to show Minas Tirith from a distance. The White City gleamed against the dark mountains, and a seven-pointed white star was set in the sky. The other box was the same size, but on it was painted a city Lothíriel did not recognize. A great golden hall glinted against dark mountains as well, and a few horses grazed in the foreground.

“Is this one Edoras?” she asked.

“Mm. I asked Éomer to send me a sketch and description. He very wisely had a local artist describe it for me.” Amrothos ran a hand along the smooth top and restacked his boxes. “The varnish only just set this morning.”

“Well, you outdid yourself,” Lothíriel said. “These are beautiful. Truly beautiful.”

“I thank you,” he said with a flourishing bow.

Lothíriel sighed wistfully. “I only wish I had half your skill at—well, at anything, really.”

“Come now,” Amrothos said. His lips twitched. “You are far better than I am at bookkeeping.”

“Bookkeeping!” she scoffed. “What are numbers to such art? And my gift is nothing to this. Yours was made with your own hands. Well, painted, anyway.”

Amrothos waved her arguments aside. “You are better company, at least.” He picked up Éowyn’s bouquet and tucked Lothíriel’s hand in his elbow. As he led her out of the hall, he said, “Well, I am glad you like the finished product.”

Lothíriel banished her crossness with a shake of her head and smiled at Amrothos. “I do! And I expect something even better for my wedding. Whenever that is. Take care not to lapse in your practicing, brother. I shall hold you to high standards.”

“I may not need to practice,” he said. “You may be betrothed soon!”

“Why would you say so?” Lothíriel asked, aghast. “I’ve barely had a year of freedom! How would you feel if you’d been betrothed so soon?”

“You’re twenty-one now,” Amrothos said. “That’s not too soon. Especially if our father has someone in mind.”

Lothíriel narrowed her eyes at her brother. He didn’t _sound_ like he was trying to tell her something. But…

“Are you trying to tell me something?” she demanded.

Amrothos shrugged, face unreadable. “If Adar has anyone in mind, I’m sure he’ll tell you about it,” he said with finality. Lothíriel sighed; Amrothos patted her hand. “Now, where were you taking these flowers?”

“To Éowyn, for her hair.” She led the way to Éowyn’s rooms.

As they reached the last corner, Lothíriel heard someone coming just out of sight. She held Amrothos back. “Watch out,” she called in Westron.

The footsteps paused, then a tall Rohir eased his way around the corner. Lothíriel’s heart skipped a beat. It was King Éomer! She quickly schooled her features to contain her shock, but she had ended up a little behind her brother, and Éomer did not notice her at first.

“Excuse me,” he said, and then he recognized Amrothos. “Ah, Amrothos.” He smiled, his bright eyes glinting with pleasure. “Your father was looking for you.”

“Of course he was,” Amrothos said easily. He glanced back at Lothíriel, and Éomer at last spotted her.

“Forgive me, Lady Lothíriel,” he said with a bow. “I did not see you.”

“There’s nothing to forgive, my lord,” she said, face hot. Curse her luck! She must look a mess, what with her windblown hair and wrinkled skirts.

But Éomer did not seem to care, for he clasped Amrothos’s arm and strode off to the main hall.

Lothíriel was torn between indignance and relief. Even when Éomer did see her, her presence barely registered with him! Was she so little to look at? She smoothed her hair with a frown.

Yet Éomer’s disinterest now meant she could feasibly shock him tonight. She had seen such behavior before—Elphir, her eldest brother, had hardly noticed his future wife until she began wearing the newer fashions. Lothíriel had been baffled, but Amrothos had told her how little men notice.

Éomer was hardly an outlier. All Lothíriel had to do was look her best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amrothos! My favorite of Lothíriel's brothers to write about. The "are you trying to tell me something" exchange is endlessly funny to me, for some reason...
> 
> Hope you're enjoying our little romp through Emyn Arnen! Reviews always welcome xoxo


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lothíriel stood on tiptoes to find one of her brothers. Erchirion was close at hand, and he soon caught her eye and came over.
> 
> “Did you want to dance again?” he asked.
> 
> “No, no. I want you to get Éomer to come talk to me.”
> 
> Erchirion’s eyebrows shot up, and a sly look crossed his face. “Really?”

Lothíriel stared at herself in the looking glass. She turned this way and that, getting a view from every possible angle.

Éomer was going to be _speechless_.

Her damask silk dress and matching kirtle were a deep aqua, almost the color of the sea, with a dark blue pattern reminiscent of waves breaking across the shore. The colors brought out the blue flecks in her gray eyes. The tightly fitted sleeves came to a point past her wrist, lengthening her graceful arms. And the dress cinched in at her waist with an intricate silver belt shot through with pearls. With her thick dark curls secured in a beaded net and the neckline of her dress leaving nearly all her neck and shoulders bare, Lothíriel felt as desirable as any queen.

Her mother, at least, was pleased. Lady Aeardis smiled proudly as soon as Lothíriel peeked in her parents’ room to beg for jewels.

“You look so beautiful, Lothíriel!” Aeardis said. She rushed over to embrace Lothíriel. “I’m very proud of you, my dear,” she murmured. “You are a credit to us.” She pulled back to look Lothíriel over. “But I guess you would like some jewels! Did you bring nothing to wear with this?”

Lothíriel glanced down and scuffed the floor with the toe of her shoe. “I thought I did,” she said. “But it didn’t seem right, in the end. Please, Naneth? I’m sure you have something…”

Aeardis smiled. “Of course I do. And I daresay you’ll be well pleased with it, for it is the only thing I will consent to share.” She went back to her jewelry box and rummaged for a minute. Lothíriel leaned against the window and stared down at the gardens. There was the willow tree where Æmma had been crying this morning.

“Here,” Aeardis announced. She passed Lothíriel a matching set—necklace, earrings, and a ring all wrought in silver and set with pearls and sapphires.

“Oh, Naneth! Truly?” Lothíriel flung her arms around her mother’s neck and showered her with grateful kisses. “Thank you, thank you!”

Laughing, Aeardis helped fasten the necklace as Lothíriel put on the ring and earrings.

“There,” Aeardis said. “If every man in Emyn Arnen is not half in love with you at first sight, then I do not know men!”

 

* * *

 

Everyone in her family had tears in their eyes before Éowyn and Faramir’s wedding ceremony was over. Even Amrothos blinked rapidly when the couple pledged their love and fidelity.

Lothíriel was smiling despite her tears. She took no small amount of pride in how well Éowyn looked with the white flowers twisted in her braids. With her flowing white gown and her river of golden hair, Éowyn looked like a princess from the ancient days. And Faramir, bless him, was beaming with shining eyes. When he finally kissed his bride, Erchirion let out a whoop along with half the hall. Lothíriel just laughed, giddy, as she leaned on Amrothos’s arm.

Soon enough, the couple was escorted out for a brief period of privacy while an army of servants swarmed in to escort the guests to their seats. To her delight, Lothíriel was seated in clear view of the high table. Two seats in the middle were for Faramir and Éowyn when they returned, but on either side were the greatest lords of Gondor and Rohan. King Elessar, Queen Arwen, Imrahil, and Aeardis sat on one side; King Éomer, Lord Aldor, and another lord and lady Lothíriel didn’t remember were on the other side.

Her brothers were loud and merry even before servants brought out wine, ale, and mead. Their table was full with other young people from Gondor and Rohan, including Æmma.

Æmma stole the seat by Lothíriel’s side and scooted close. “You have not forgotten me, I hope?” she whispered.

“Of course not,” Lothíriel said. She pressed her lips together and drew away. Did Æmma have no faith in her at all? Anyway, she had hoped to enjoy herself before carrying out her plan. If Æmma was going to breathe down her neck all night, she’d almost rather sit elsewhere.

But Æmma did not broach the topic again, and indeed she seemed as cheery as the rest of them. When Faramir and Éowyn returned from their privacy, she downed a whole glass of ale nearly as quick as Erchirion. Lothíriel stared at them all, marveling that they were all still standing, but her eyes soon slid to her cousin and his lovely bride ascending the dais. And from there, her eyes slid to Éomer as he stood to receive them.

For the first time today, she just looked at him. No calculating, no dissembling. No rapid thinking through her promise to Æmma. She just… looked.

Éomer’s golden hair shone no less than Éowyn’s. His kingly garb only accentuated his strong figure: his powerful shoulders, his great height, his long legs and strong arms. When he pulled back from kissing Éowyn’s cheek, his bright eyes and smile nearly stopped Lothíriel’s heart. Æmma was mad, totally mad for wanting to prevent the betrothal. What warm-blooded person would want to distance themselves from such a man?

And in what world would such a man fall prey to her simple trick?

Lothíriel quaffed her own wine with fervor to rival any of her brothers. There was no point in doubting herself. She’d given Æmma her word, and she would keep it. If what she had planned failed, she would try again and again until time ran out or she succeeded.

By the time the servants were clearing away the plates and the dancing had begun, a light, happy haze had settled over her. Her confidence was back, and she watched Éomer out of the corner of her eye, assessing him.

Éomer had stood out the first dance, but now he was dancing with Éowyn. The pair of them looked lovely: tall, blond, and elegant, they stepped flawlessly through a Gondorian court dance that had taken a frustratingly long time for Lothíriel to master. Only a slight furrowing of Éomer’s brow gave a hint at how strange the dance must be to them.

The song neared its end, and Lothíriel edged from her spot at the side of the room to near where Éomer and Éowyn would finish. But there was no getting past the determined crowd of ladies who already stood in her way. Lothíriel was forced to watch, dismayed, as Éomer kissed his sister and turned to partner with Æmma, who shot Lothíriel a covert, murderous look as Lord Aldor handed her off.

When the music began again—this time a more lively Rohirric dance—Lothíriel sighed and drew back to lean against one of the great wooden pillars. The sight of all of the other women angling for Éomer’s attention had given her pause. No doubt many of them, and some of their parents, had the same idea as herself. There were more coy glances and fluttering eyelashes here than she had ever seen before. Surely Éomer would be on his guard. Even now, dancing with Æmma, he had a studied look on his face. Wasn’t he happy to be dancing with her?

“Lothíriel?”

Lothíriel jumped, but it was only Erchirion. “Oh,” she said. “I didn’t expect you.”

“I guessed as much,” he said, smiling. “Would you like to dance?”

She squeezed his offered hand with a bright smile. “Yes, please! But let’s wait for one I know.”

“The Northern dances are nothing to some of ours,” Erchirion said. “But wait we shall.” He tucked her hand into his elbow and tapped his foot to the music. He mostly watched the dancers, but he stole glances at Lothíriel. “You do look lovely tonight, sister. This is different than your usual style, isn’t it?”

“Is it?” Lothíriel toyed with her neckline, not meeting her brother’s eyes. “I only wanted to look as nice as I could for Faramir and Éowyn’s sake.”

“Well,” Erchirion said, “I cannot fault you there.” He did not sound particularly convinced, but he said no more.

Once the minstrels called a Gondorian song again, Lothíriel nearly dragged Erchirion down to the line of dancers. When Queen Arwen appeared beside her, Lothíriel dropped into a sudden curtsey. Arwen smiled at her, and then Lothíriel realized that her queen was partnered with Éomer. She blanched.

Erchirion was busy congratulating Éomer, giving Lothíriel just enough time to rub some color back into her cheeks. She did not look at Éomer, instead focusing all her attention on her brother for the first part of the song.

Then, the music shifted, and Lothíriel had to cross the line by catching hold of Éomer’s hand. She could barely bring herself to smile up at him as they clasped hands, but when she did, she nearly faltered.

Éomer looked exhausted. Not tired, for his steps were smooth and light, but as though another moment feigning joy would steal the life out of him.

But the moment passed, and when Lothíriel settled into her new place, she could see no trace of weariness on Éomer’s face. He did frown at her a little when he noticed her staring at him, and she pressed her lips together in as much a smile as she could manage.

The dance went on forever after that, and Lothíriel felt worse and worse. How could she have conspired against Éomer at such a time as this? However happy he must be for Éowyn, her wedding signaled a change that he was not likely to recover from anytime soon. Hadn’t she told Éowyn just this morning that Éomer had it worse?

And she had hoped to use tonight to spoil his plans.

When the dance finally ended, Lothíriel thanked Erchirion and fled back to a spot near the side of the room, avoiding the gaze of any man who tried to catch her eye. She grabbed a goblet of wine from a servant, less to drink and more to hold between her and anyone else. Leaning against the wall, eyes downcast, she hoped she presented a sufficiently uninviting picture.

She did glance every so often at Éomer. He had smiled when he kissed Éowyn earlier, but now he was stern and foreboding. The ladies he danced with were either cheerful or coy, but none could tease a smile from him. Not even Æmma, who to be fair was probably not trying at all. She was as sullen as Éomer.

Lothíriel haunted the edges of the hall, only venturing to the center of the room for a series of dances with Amrothos, Faramir, and finally her father.

When Imrahil escorted her off the floor, he lingered by her. “You are too shy tonight,” he chided. “If you were your usual self, you would be the fairest maiden here.”

“Thank you, Adar,” she said. “But I don’t care to cast any aspersions on my new cousin.”

Imrahil chuckled and patted her cheek. “Wise girl.”

As soon as he went off to claim a dance with his wife, Lothíriel sighed. She craned her neck to to catch a glimpse of Éomer’s partner; it was one of Arwen’s other ladies, Zamîn, who had been sharing Lothíriel’s room since her arrival two days back. Zamîn was even younger than Lothíriel. Her twentieth birthday had only been a month ago, yet here she was, shooting hopeful looks at the king of Rohan.

Lothíriel shook her head. There was no reason for her to be bitter. Zamîn was pretty and well-bred, and Éomer was handsome, noble, and—to common knowledge, at least—unattached. Why _shouldn’t_ Zamîn, or anyone else, try for him? No other single man in the room, her own brothers included, was his equal in looks, valor, or rank.

But however pretty his partner, Éomer still looked as though the weight of the great vaulted hall rested entirely on his broad shoulders. Éowyn, sitting up on the dais with Faramir, was watching her brother with clouded eyes. She’d noticed it too, Lothíriel realized.

That settled it. There was no way she could enact her plan tonight. Her promise to Æmma loomed in the back of her mind like a dark beast, but she pushed it aside. Æmma could not be suffering more tonight than Éomer was.

Lothíriel stood on tiptoes to find one of her brothers. Erchirion was close at hand, and he soon caught her eye and came over.

“Did you want to dance again?” he asked.

“No, no. I want you to get Éomer to come talk to me.”

Erchirion’s eyebrows shot up, and a sly look crossed his face. “Really?”

“It’s not like that,” she protested, flicking his sleeve. “But I am done dancing, and if he wants an excuse to escape the floor, I am a very handy one.”

Her brother laughed. “He has more attention tonight than any man has a right to! Why should he want to leave all his admirers now?”

“Does he look happy to you?” she asked pointedly. Erchirion looked Éomer over from their safe distance and frowned, but did not argue. “He’s happy for his sister, but she’s his only family left. This can’t be easy.”

“No,” Erchirion said. He studied Lothíriel with a furrowed brow. “It can’t be.”

“Anyway, no one can accuse him of being ungallant if he’s busy with me.”

Erchirion smiled. “No, they can’t. Alright, I’ll bring him over. But don’t misbehave!”

“Me? Misbehave?” Lothíriel feigned a wounded expression, and her brother laughed as he left her. She watched him closely as he dawdled by the edge of the floor among the ladies vying for a dance, and when the current song came to a close he quickly scooped Éomer up.

Lothíriel swallowed and bit her lip. Was this going to be a stupid impulse like her promise to Æmma? Éomer was already headed her way; it was too late to check her hair. She twisted her hands together behind her back.

“Éomer, you know my sister Lothíriel,” Erchirion said. He presented Éomer to her with a shallow bow.

“Of course,” Éomer said. “Good evening, Lady Lothíriel.”

Belatedly, Lothíriel remembered to hold out her hand, and Éomer clasped it politely. Apart from during her dance with Erchirion, this was the only time they had touched. It was its own kind of thrill. Éomer’s hand was large and warm around hers.

“Good evening, King Éomer,” she said. She pulled her hand back as soon as Éomer loosened his grip; she could hardly bear to touch him. If she did, surely he would think her as obsessive as the other ladies.

“Excuse me,” Erchirion said, “I have yet to claim the honor of a dance with my new cousin!”

Éomer raised his eyebrows at her as soon as Erchirion was gone. His stern demeanor was thoroughly off-putting; she couldn’t imagine why so many people were still watching him.

“Would you like to dance, my lady?” he asked.

“No,” she answered. “I thought—” She flushed, but carried on, a little quieter than before. “I thought you might like a break.”

He blinked. “I see.” He scratched his bearded cheek and stared down at her with mild bemusement. “Thank you,” he said at last. “Was it so obvious?”

Relief washed over her. He wasn’t offended! Praise Elbereth.

“I don’t think so,” she said. “But… I said to Éowyn this morning that I thought you had it worse than she did.”

“How do you mean?”

“She is a stranger to Gondor yet,” Lothíriel explained. “But she will have many new diversions. I expect your home will seem empty. It’s easier to start afresh than to suffer through abandonment.”

Éomer’s keen eyes were fixed on hers; his lips were slightly parted. Lothíriel toyed with her bracelet, and after a moment Éomer remembered himself.

“I think you are right,” he said. “All in all, I would rather keep the hardships to myself than to have Éowyn suffer.”

“A very noble sentiment,” she declared. “But it’s hardly good to be deprived of all difficulties, you know. It makes you think you can do anything.”

A smile ghosted past his lips, but his malaise was not gone for long. “Indeed.”

“But it was a lovely ceremony,” Lothíriel chirped. “There’s nothing like watching a happy couple be married, don’t you think?”

“Certainly not,” he said. “And I have never seen such a happy couple in my life.”

Lothíriel beamed. Éomer had more than a few years on her; such a statement said only good things for her cousin’s future happiness.

“I am so glad for Faramir,” she said. “But I’m glad for myself as well! I like your sister. Gondor is lucky to have her.”

“Aye,” Éomer said. He watched Éowyn and Faramir up on the dais wistfully. “You are all lucky.”

“Well,” Lothíriel said, hoping to lighten his mood, “at least she didn’t fall in love with one of my brothers. Then she would have ended up in Dol Amroth! Minas Tirith and Ithilien are much more reasonable, don’t you think?”

Éomer turned and stared at her. She squirmed, but did not look away, and after a long, tense moment, he let out a bark of laughter.

“You are something, aren’t you?” he said, suddenly smiling.

Lothíriel blushed under the power of that smile. Blessed Elbereth! Who had allowed such a face to exist?

“I try to be something, though I’m never quite sure what I end up as,” she answered.

His smile deepened; his eye crinkled and dimples formed above his beard. “Well, I cannot speak for other times, but right now you are just fine,” he said. He offered her his hand again. “Come dance with me, lady.”

Her heart beat fast as she put her hand back in his. “If you insist, my lord.” She glanced around; only a few people were obviously staring at them. Æmma’s shooting look gave Lothíriel pause, but her predicament would have to wait.

Right now, Lothíriel was busy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> She's BUSY :D :D :D
> 
> I took the liberty of adding in a Jewish wedding custom, yichud, where bride and groom seclude themselves between the ceremony and meal/dancing. Traditionally it's to exchange gifts and break the wedding day fast, and (considering how insane wedding days are) get a chance to breathe and eat away from the horde of guests.
> 
> Hope you're enjoying this little tale! Reviews always welcome xoxo


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Æmma seemed to think the whole situation was due to her father’s scheming, but what if Éomer loved Æmma? The thought twisted Lothíriel's stomach unpleasantly, but she couldn’t dismiss the possibility entirely. Éomer might have been lovely and charming last night, but he had spent at least as much time with Æmma.
> 
> Hadn’t he?

Lothíriel murmured sleepily and stretched her arms up over her head, eyes still closed. She curled her toes and rolled onto her side to bury her head into the pillow. Maybe she could snatch more sleep, if she just found the right position…

“ _Lothíriel_ ,” someone hissed.

Lothíriel shrieked and flailed back, banging her head against the wall. “Ow!” she cried. She cracked open her eyes.

Æmma was hovering over her, her long blond braids dangling over her shoulders and brushing Lothíriel’s blankets. “Are you alright?” she asked.

Wincing, Lothíriel rubbed her head and nodded. At least she wasn’t bleeding. But her head was pounding in more than one place. Did she drink so much last night?

Forget that—what was Æmma doing in her room? And where was Zamîn? Her bedfellow was nowhere to be seen.

Lothíriel scooted back and frowned. “It is early yet,” she began, but Æmma waved her protestations aside.

“Lothíriel, I have heard of no change in my circumstances,” Æmma said. “I don’t know what got into you last night, but I think I have it!”

“Have what?” Lothíriel ran her hands through her loose curls and pulled her shift down to cover her knees.

“The solution! You should marry Éomer instead of me!” Æmma sat back, a proud grin on her face.

Lothíriel blinked. “Um.”

“Yes, it’s perfect!” Æmma crowed. “He doesn’t mind you at all.”

“What do you mean?” Lothíriel rubbed her temples.

“You made him laugh, and you weren’t even trying. And he asked you to dance even after you turned him down!”

“Wha—you were eavesdropping?”

“Of course I was.” Æmma rolled her eyes at Lothíriel’s wounded expression. “This is my whole life we’re talking about, Lothíriel. And you’re making very little headway.”

“There’s still plenty of time,” Lothíriel argued. “I’ll figure something out.”

“I told you,” Æmma said, “I have it. Isn’t your father trying to make a match between you and Éomer anyway?”

“I—I don’t know anything about that!” Lothíriel crossed her arms over her chest and looked away.

_Was_ her father angling for a betrothal between her and Éomer? Amrothos had hinted at Imrahil planning something of the sort yesterday. She hadn’t wanted to believe it, but perhaps it was true. And it wasn’t as though she could fault her father in his choice. Éomer was the best match anyone could hope for. Rank, valor, and looks…

The looks, especially. Lothíriel had always know brave, noble men, but none had ever been so handsome. Maybe she just had a strange preference for bearded blondes with broad shoulders and large, powerful hands. And bright, keen eyes, and—

“Lothíriel.”

Lothíriel flinched, face hot. She drew up her knees and grabbed her toes. All of those thoughts were flighty fancies. She pushed her shallow musings aside. “I said I’d help you get out of it, Æmma, not that I’d get myself entangled instead! Why don’t you just tell Éomer to cancel the betrothal if you’re so desperate to be rid of him?”

“Have you not met my father?” Æmma snapped. She crossed her arms and tossed her head. “He’d have me on a pike if he learned I ruined his plans. No, it’s much better if you do it yourself. You did promise. You swore!”

“I did,” Lothíriel said. “And I won’t go back on my word.” She sighed and rested her cheek against her knee. “But I don’t see why you’re so against the betrothal.”

Æmma snorted. “You wouldn’t. _You_ have three brothers.” She took in Lothíriel’s bafflement with a sigh. “Don’t you know? I’m my father’s heir. If I marry Éomer King, my inheritance is on the line. How can I be mistress of my father’s lands if I am busy tending Meduseld?” She leaned forward and grabbed Lothíriel’s hand. “Do you know how rare it is for a woman to inherit?” Lothíriel shook her head, and Æmma forged on. “I want to be my own mistress, not just a wife. Is that so terrible?”

“Of course not,” Lothíriel blurted.

To be your own mistress! _That_ was a fate that Lothíriel had never considered. It was impossible for her. Three brothers and one nephew stood in her way, not to mention her politically-minded father. Imrahil would never settle for letting Lothíriel have her own lands. She had been raised her whole life to adorn some man’s table and keep his household. It might not be Valar-ordained, but Æmma’s opportunity was as close to a miracle as any trick of fate.

She squeezed Æmma’s hand. “As you wish, so it shall be. I will not let you down, Æmma. I gave my word, and I will keep it.”

Æmma kissed her hand, her large eyes shining. “Thank you, lady. Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

Around eleven o’clock, Lothíriel and her mother headed over from the guest house to wait on Éowyn. Lady Aeardis looped her arm in Lothíriel’s as they meandered down the garden paths.

Lothíriel smiled absently at her mother, but soon enough a frown pulled at her lips. Æmma’s plight still weighed her down, and no new solution had presented itself. Seduction and marrying Éomer herself were impossible. She had enjoyed herself very much last night, talking and dancing with him, but a half-hour’s conversation and two breathless dances were a silly foundation for a marriage.

Besides, she didn’t _want_ to marry Éomer. Æmma’s predicament was unfortunate, but Lothíriel was hardly about to enmesh herself in the drama any further. With all she’d heard of Lord Aldor, getting in his way would be about as wise as—well, not quite as unwise as marching alone to the Black Gate, but not far off. Lothíriel had promised to help Æmma. She hadn’t promised the skin off her back.

“You’ve been quite distracted lately, Lothíriel,” Aeardis said, cutting through Lothíriel’s muggy thoughts.

“Have I? I beg your pardon, Naneth.” Lothíriel squeezed her mother’s hand.

“Oh, I think I understand.” Aeardis smiled slyly. “There’s certainly more to occupy yourself with here, among such company, than at home.”

“Well, it was a wonderful wedding. Faramir couldn’t have chosen a more lovely bride, either for beauty or goodness.” Lothíriel sighed wistfully. If only that was the only thing on her mind!

“May the Valar bless them with many children,” Aeardis said.

“Amen,” Lothíriel said automatically. Now there was an appealing thought. Lothíriel dearly loved her nephew Alphros; the prospect of more children to dote upon brought a smile to her face.

“And Valar willing, you shall have your own someday soon,” Aeardis continued.

Lothíriel laughed. “Well, when the time comes, I shall do my best. Although if I end up with three unruly boys, I may give up!”

“Now, now,” Aeardis said, lips twitching. She paused to pluck a flower from a willow tree.

Lothíriel smile faded as she waited for her mother. She’d found Æmma under a willow tree, and in that matter she had no cause for joy. A good lady’s future was on the line—not to mention Lothíriel’s honor. Why oh why had she sworn to help? Had she always been so foolhardy, or was it just the air in Ithilien?

Aeardis spun the flower between her fingers. “The wedding was indeed lovely, but there are other things and people to occupy your time now,” she said.

“Yes indeed.” Lothíriel bit back a sigh, but her mother gave her a knowing look.

“Sighing,” Aeardis said, “is a sign of a preoccupied mind.” She smiled archly at Lothíriel. “But I hope these are for a happy cause.”

“I hope so, Naneth,” Lothíriel said earnestly. “There’s hope in all things, isn’t there?”

“Just so, Lothíriel. Just so.”

Aeardis patted Lothíriel’s hand, and the two of them continued to the main house. Lady Éowyn was waiting for them.

 

* * *

 

Lothíriel sighed and dragged her finger through the dirt. She was lying on a wooden bench under a willow tree—the same bench that she’d found Æmma crying on yesterday morning. After luncheon was served in Lady Éowyn’s solar, Lothíriel had managed to slip out without either her mother or Aunt Ivriniel stopping her. She could hardly believe her luck. Usually, one—or both—of them would call out to her just as she was nearing the door. Today, though, they had been deep in a hushed conversation. As Lothíriel was inching for the door, her mother had even shot her an indulgent smile. It was as though Aeardis _wanted_ Lothíriel out of the room.

Whatever the reason for her mother’s laxness, Lothíriel was grateful. It was impossible to think in there, what with Æmma giving her significant looks and Frikka smirking, not to mention Éowyn’s attempts at poise while her whole bearing sang out her joy. The whole room had seemed to be trying to distract her.

Now, though, she could fully appreciate the bind she was in. Æmma and Éomer’s betrothal was set to be announced in only a few more hours, and Lothíriel had no idea what to do about it.

She was loath to turn back to her first plan, but nothing else came to mind. How else was one to break a betrothal but to get in the way of it? And how could one get in the way without some clever manipulation?

Even supposing she could manage it, how would she manage the fallout? She didn’t want to be the cause of Éomer’s unhappiness. Æmma seemed to think the whole situation was due to her father’s scheming, but what if Éomer loved Æmma? The thought twisted her stomach unpleasantly, but she couldn’t dismiss the possibility entirely. Éomer might have been lovely and charming last night, but he had spent at least as much time with Æmma.

Hadn’t he?

Quiet footsteps registered, and Lothíriel bit back a groan. Was she to have no peace at all?

“Good day, Lady Lothíriel.”

Lothíriel’s eyes widened at the voice and she sat up quickly. The blood rushed to her head, and she blinked rapidly. “King Éomer,” she said. Her vision was spotty, but she could still make out his looming form and braided hair.

Once her vision cleared, she finally looked Éomer in the face. His concerned expression rendered him almost tender.

“Are you well, my lady?” he asked.

“Mm!” She smiled tightly. “It’s nothing. I only sat up too fast.”

“Ah, yes.” Éomer’s lips twitched. “Do you mind some company? To ease your recovery, of course.”

Here she was, trying to think of how to sabotage his betrothal, and he wanted to keep her company? Nienna grant her patience!

But there was no refusing a king.

“I would be honored,” she said, much more graciously than she felt.

Éomer bowed. For a minute, he hovered awkwardly, and then Lothíriel remembered her manners.

“Please sit,” she said. She scooted to the edge of the bench, leaving more than enough room for him. This seat had likely been made for a couple, but that was hardly her goal. She was only here to figure out how to help Æmma. But she still didn’t know how, and so she was left watching Éomer out of the corner of her eye, trying to figure out what to do.

After everything she’d seen last night, and after Æmma’s ridiculous assertion that she should marry Éomer herself, there was no way she could carry through with her original plan. Éomer might be the handsomest man she’d ever seen, but she could never face the embarrassment of facing him after all was said and done. They had gotten along so well last night! He had laughed; they had danced; she had been swept away in his arms. But if she were to try and trick him into breaking his betrothal…

No, it wouldn’t do.

She frowned at Éomer, and realized with a start he was staring warily at her.

“I—I’m sorry,” she stammered.

Éomer smiled apologetically. “It is forgiven.” He leaned back on his hands. “I know why I am studying you, but what are _you_ looking for?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it. He was studying her? Why, for Elbereth’s sake? He had scarcely noticed her before last night, and now his blue eyes were fixed on hers, expectant and curious.

Oh, he had asked her a question.

“I was wondering—” She paused, unsure what to say. Her father and brothers might trust Éomer on the battlefield and in the council room, but in the matter of Æmma’s future…

Éomer nodded and leaned back to look up at the willow tree. “Have you ever made a hasty decision that you regret?”

“Oh, yes.” She heaved a sigh and picked at the dirt caught under her fingernail. A hasty decision indeed—if he only knew! “But decisions alone can usually be changed. It’s when you make a promise that you’re well and truly stuck.”

“Do you think all oaths are an evil?” Éomer asked.

“Of course not!” She sat up, indignant. Her promise to Æmma might have been badly done, but one foolish pledge did not speak for them all. “Why, anyone who saw Faramir and Éowyn—I mean, Lady Éowyn—last night would know that many are blessed. There’s the Oath of Cirion, and every other true bond of friendship.”

“I do sometimes wonder if your cousin will question the wisdom of his choice when Éowyn gets in a stubborn mood,” Éomer mused.

“Well,” she said, “he’d be one to complain! Is he not the most stubborn man in Gondor?”

“Perhaps,” Éomer said, smiling. “But in all seriousness, I would not care if he was, so long as he loves her and treats her well. And he does.”

Lothíriel grinned, suddenly relieved. How could she have doubted Éomer? Didn’t he have a sister? And was he not a good king to all his people, not just the men? Éomer was a man she could trust with anything. A great weight lifted from her, and she turned to look Éomer in the eye.

“Æmma doesn’t want to marry you,” she told him.

He blinked, looking for all the world like a startled deer. “What?”

“I found her here.” Lothíriel patted their bench. “She was crying, and I persuaded her to tell me why. And—and I promised I would help her.” She hunched her shoulders, nervous again. “But only you can do that.”

As she spoke, Éomer glanced up and pulled on one of the willow tree’s spindly branches until it snapped. He twirled it in his fingers and sighed.

“Do you know why I wanted to marry her?” he asked.

Lothíriel shook her head mutely.

“You had it right last night,” he said. “Éowyn is the luckier of us, for she will not be deprived of half so much as I shall be. Your country and mine have their differences, but running a household here is not half so different as she feared. But I have no one to replace her.” He crushed the broken stem in his fingers until its leaves crumbled to dust across his thighs. “Any well-bred lady can keep a house, but I loved none as I love my sister. There is no replacing her, I know, but a wife…

“I have known Æmma for years, though not well. Her father has always spoken highly of her, and Éowyn has as well. I believe love could have grown between us. But I thought she was willing.”

That made far more sense than Lothíriel had supposed. After Æmma’s description of her father, Lothíriel had supposed Éomer had been maneuvered into the betrothal. But his words belied her assumptions. Éomer had been the master of his fate the whole time, and she had underestimated his resolve.

“I understand,” she murmured. She toyed with a loose curl and sighed. “What will you do now?”

“I will speak with Æmma,” he said.

Lothíriel started. Æmma would be horrified if Éomer approached her! She would despise Lothíriel, and consider her a failure. And if Lord Aldor heard of it…

Oh, why didn’t he trust her? Lothíriel’s lips quivered; she pressed them together hard. Éomer winced.

“I mean no offense, my lady, but—

“No,” she interrupted. She sighed. “I understand. It would be foolish to take my word alone. But please,” she urged, “do not let Lord Aldor get wind of it! She is afraid of what he will do if he suspects her of any contention.” Éomer raised an eyebrow, and she flushed and looked away. “Perhaps Æmma frets for nothing, but if her worries are well-founded… I would not have her suffer from my meddling.”

Éomer studied her carefully, and eventually she turned to look at him.

“You are honest?” he asked.

“Yes. I would not lie to you.” She twisted her lips into a halfhearted smile. “I thought you Rohirrim were wise to such things, anyway.”

“We are,” he said, the hint of a smile on his face. “But I wanted it from your own lips.” His gaze dropped briefly to her mouth, then he looked away. “There is another way to rescue Æmma from her fate. Her manner last night…” He shook his head. “If I can find another bride, I might find a way to excuse myself. And I know of another lady who might suit.”

“Do you?” Lothíriel sat up, intrigued. Whom could he mean?

“Aye,” he said, “but I do not know if she would be willing.”

She scoffed. “I can understand Æmma’s reasons. She has the chance to be her own mistress! But if this other lady has no such claim, she’d be mad to refuse.”

Éomer raised an eyebrow, lips pressed together with amusement. His bright eyes danced. “I shall take that into account.”

Lothíriel blushed and looked away. Had she been too forward? She glanced at Éomer under her eyelashes. He was smiling at her, dimples and all. Not too forward, then. Besides, he must be aware of his attractions; they were too obvious for anyone with sense to ignore.

So who was this other lady? Lothíriel itched to know. Æmma’s fate was not secure, not yet. Not until Éomer made his excuses to Lord Aldor, at the very least, and preferably not until he had plighted his troth to someone else.

“So,” Éomer said. He sat back on his hands and stretched out a long leg. “Was that the hasty promise you made? To help Æmma?” She nodded; Éomer’s lips twitched. “Out of the sheer goodness of your heart?”

Lothíriel quirked her brow. “What do you mean?”

“You saw her upset, and you promised to help her just like that?”

“Well, yes,” she said, still confused. Wasn’t that the right thing to do? “She told me she was being forced to wed. I didn’t even know about her birthright until this morning.”

Éomer hummed. He snapped another branch off and began to strip the leaves from it. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and looked up at her from beneath his brows. “That was a very noble sentiment,” he murmured. He dropped the thin branch to the ground and glanced behind them. Determined mischief lit his eyes, and Lothíriel began to turn to look.

But before she could see if anyone was in sight, Éomer put a rough hand against her face, stopping her from turning. Her heart skipped a beat; she opened her mouth in shock. Éomer scooted closer, his knee hard against hers. He slid his hand down her cheek to grasp her chin and brushed her lips with his thumb. She could find no words. Her eyes were wide as she stared at him. Only vaguely did she register the sound of footsteps.

Then he drew her to him and kissed her.

Lothíriel squeaked, but Éomer did not pull back immediately. His lips were gentle, and his beard was strange against her face. Her heart thudded in her chest.

She reached out to push Éomer away, but her hands landed softly against his chest and her eyes slid closed. He scooted even closer; their thighs were pressed together now. A hot thrill lanced through her as he cupped the back of her neck with his other hand.

At last, breathing heavily, Éomer broke the kiss. His lips twitched as they stared at each other, and Lothíriel could do no more than catch her breath. Was he laughing? She opened her mouth to ask, but then his hand trailed along the back of her neck and along her shoulder. She shivered; her thoughts floated away like a feather on the breeze.

“Éomer!”

Lothíriel jumped at the sound of Amrothos’s voice. Oh no, had he seen all of that? She tried to turn her head again, but Éomer stopped her from looking as he had before.

He leaned in close. His nose brushed her ear, sending another shiver up her spine. “You would be mad to refuse,” he whispered slyly. “Are you mad, lady?”

Why—!

Lothíriel pulled back and gaped at Éomer. To use her own words against her! That was a dirty trick.

But did that mean… Was _she_ the other lady?

“Éomer, kindly unhand my sister,” Amrothos ordered. He marched over to them. Thankfully, Éomer stood up and stepped back before Amrothos removed him with force. “Lothíriel?” Amrothos sat in Éomer’s vacated seat and gripped Lothíriel’s shoulder. “Are you alright?”

She blinked at her brother. “I—yes, of course I am.” Her gaze strayed to Éomer, who was looking down at her with an unreadable expression. Was she alright, indeed! How could she be anything but well after a kiss like that with a man like him? “I’m perfectly well,” she declared.

Éomer smiled at her, a private, heated smile that left her breathless all over again. She pressed a hand against her chest, trying to relax her racing heart.

“Where is your father, Amrothos?” Éomer said. “We have business to discuss.”

Amrothos jumped up and crossed his arms. “First with me,” he said doggedly. “What’s going on here?”

“I would have thought it was obvious, Amrothos,” Éomer said. “Were you not urging me to get to know Lothíriel better?” He raised an eyebrow; Amrothos was flummoxed. “Well, you see I have done so. And I pray that she thinks I will suit her even half as well as she suits me.”

“Oh,” Amrothos said. “Oh!” A grin split his face. “Well then!” He clapped Éomer’s shoulder and swooped down to kiss his sister. “Congratulations! What a happy occasion!” He slung his arm around Éomer and led him away. “My father is with King Elessar—I will take you to them!”

Éomer shot a blinding grin over his shoulder at Lothíriel before the two men vanished from sight.

Lothíriel blinked. She opened her mouth, but there was no one left in sight.

“Um,” she said, and closed her mouth.

This was _not_ how she had expected her day to go.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imrahil reached out, and she quickly put her hands in his. “Daughter, I want your happiness. I cannot be glad that my friend made a promise that he could not keep.”
> 
> “It wasn’t—”
> 
> “A man’s word is his honor,” Imrahil continued. “And Éomer has broken his once.” He tightened his grip on Lothíriel’s hands. “I trust him and love him, Lothíriel, but this is so sudden. What if he meets another woman and does the same to you?”

Her father found her some time later.

“Lothíriel,” Imrahil called.

Lothíriel blinked and turned to watch him approach her bench. She had not moved since Éomer had left her to seek her father out. She wasn’t sure what to say, so she only ducked her head in respect.

Imrahil sat beside her; she did not meet his eyes.

“Éomer came to speak to me,” Imrahil began.

Lothíriel nodded. “Yes,” she said hoarsely. “So I gathered.” She dug her toes into the dirt and stared at her hands spread against her skirts. Her father did not continue until she glanced up at him.

“He told me about a promise that he had made to wed Lord Aldor’s daughter, Lady Æmma. Did you know about that?”

“I did.” She looked back down. Curse her father’s penchant for storytelling! Had Éomer asked for her hand or not?

“And yet he tells me that he has chosen to break his promise… because of you.” Imrahil cleared his throat; Lothíriel darted a look up at him. Her father’s face was grave, and she gulped.

“Adar, I—”

“Did you contrive to make Éomer break his word?” he demanded.

Her heart sank. There was no lying to her father. “I did,” she mumbled, not quite meeting his eye. “But I didn’t—”

“You have done badly by my sworn friend. How am I to understand this? Have you no respect for his wishes at all?”

“Of course I do!” Lothíriel cried. She jumped up and paced before her father, hands clenching and unclenching into fists. “I came across Æmma right here. She was sobbing with grief because of the betrothal, and I promised to help her before I knew who she’d been promised to. No woman should have to marry unwillingly, Adar. How should I have reacted to such a tale? Have you not always urged us to be honorable, and help those in need?”

Imrahil’s lips thinned. “What of Éomer’s request, then? Did you truly have no motives of your own?”

“I only wanted to redeem my word to Æmma,” she said. “There was never… Wait, what request?” Her heart beat fast, and she clenched her hands together behind her back.

“He has asked for your hand.”

She drew in a shaky breath, lips parted. Her heart had gone beyond beating; it was soaring. Éomer had asked for her hand! He wanted to marry her! He wanted her!

Yet… hadn’t she spent the last day and half determined to avoid this? Insisting to Æmma that she wanted no part of this incident, telling Amrothos that she was too young to be wed…

Well, so what if she had? Did that matter now that she had a chance at—at what? Happiness? Queenship?

Love?

Her face warmed, and she swallowed. Imrahil’s head was tilted as he looked up at her from his seat. His hands were clasped between his knees. Lothíriel could not guess at his thoughts; his face was the same polished mask he used with courtiers. She tried to school her features to match his.

“What did you say to him, Adar?” she asked, voice stronger than she felt.

“I told him I could not consider giving my assent—”

A little choked wail broke free from her throat, but her father carried on as though he did not hear.

“—without him begging Lord Aldor’s pardon and breaking off his attachment to Lady Æmma. And I would have to speak to you.”

Her shoulders sagged with relief. “Oh,” she said.

“I must admit,” Imrahil said, “I did broach the subject of a match between you only this morning. I was… surprised at the speed of his declaration. Before last night, I saw no sign of attachment.”

Lothíriel cheeks flamed. “No,” she managed. “He did not notice me at all until yesterday.”

“Quite,” Imrahil said. He reached out, and she quickly put her hands in his. “Daughter, I want your happiness. I cannot be glad that my friend made a promise that he could not keep.”

“It wasn’t—”

“A man’s word is his honor,” Imrahil continued. “And Éomer has broken his once.” He tightened his grip on Lothíriel’s hands. “I trust him and love him, Lothíriel, but this is so sudden. What if he meets another woman and does the same to you?”

If her father’s grip had been less tight, Lothíriel was sure she would have stumbled away. How could her father suggest such a thing? But he had not seen how Éomer’s face had shone when she declared that all was well after he had kissed her. He had not seen how little Éomer cared for Æmma, and how glad Æmma was at the thought of being free of him. And as of yet, he had no notion of her feelings.

Did she?

Lothíriel squeezed shut her eyes and tilted her head back. The sun filtered through the branches and shone red behind her eyelids. She thought of Éomer: tall, brave, handsome—a king among men in every sense of the word. His very presence grounded her. She knew now how foolish it would have been to try and beguile Éomer out of his promise to Æmma, but she had known that as soon as she clapped eyes on him, hadn’t she? He’d given her the wisdom to know what to do.

She had given that to him, too, in her own way. They had helped each other find the best path.

And their best path was… together.

She opened her eyes and looked down at her father without fear. “If Éomer gives his word,” she said, “I would do as Lúthien, and chase him to the Halls of Mandos and back until he redeemed it.”

“If that is true—” Imrahil kissed her hands— “then I wish you joy.” He stood and embraced her. Lothíriel’s eyes stung with unshed tears, and she wrapped her arms around her father and buried her face in his tunic.

“Thank you, Adar,” she whispered. “Thank you.” She pulled back and beamed up at her father. “This day has been full of surprises, but this one is a gift.” She stood on tiptoe to kiss Imrahil’s cheek.

“Surprises, hm?” Imrahil’s mouth spread into a sly smirk. “I have a thought.”

 

* * *

Lothíriel secluded herself in her rooms until dinner, when she went with her parents, brothers, and aunt to the great hall. Faramir came over at once.

“Mae govannen,” Faramir said. He clasped Imrahil’s hand, kissed his two aunts’ cheeks, and passed Erchirion and Amrothos with little more than a smile before embracing Lothíriel. “Blessings of the Valar for you, dear cousin.” He drew back, eyes glimmering with pleasure, and caught sight of someone behind her. “Éomer! Good evening.”

Lothíriel carefully schooled her features. Erchirion drew her a little aside so Faramir could greet his new brother. Her heartbeat rang in her ears, and not until Faramir had escorted her mother and aunt away did she glance Éomer’s way.

The moment she did, she lost her breath. He was already looking at her, his blue eyes wide and bright with hope. He took a step towards her, but stopped and swallowed when Imrahil approached him with a steely smile.

“Éomer, good evening.” Imrahil clasped Éomer’s hand. Éomer peeled his eyes reluctantly from Lothíriel to stare at her father.

“Imrahil, have you—”

But Imrahil held up his hand. “Peace, Éomer. We can speak at greater length tomorrow.” He offered Lothíriel his arm and drew her away. She glanced over her shoulder at Éomer before the crowd swallowed him up.

Once they were out of earshot, Lothíriel allowed herself a tiny giggle, but a knowing glance from her father quelled her. Imrahil escorted her up to the dais, where she was seated at the long high table just beside Queen Arwen, whose keen eyes measured Lothíriel up in an instant.

“Good evening, Lady Lothíriel,” Arwen said. A slow smile spread across the queen’s face as she glanced at Éomer, who was watching Lothíriel and her family with a torn expression.

Soon, the whole table was seated and servants began to serve the meal. Lothíriel’s father was at her other hand; Éomer was on the far end of the table, next to Faramir. If she leaned forward, she could just make him out.

When she sat back to start on her soup, she noticed a strong gaze fixed on her. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. Lord Aldor was staring at her, his worn face bearing a strange mix of interest and confusion. Lothíriel ducked her head at him and smiled as best she could. After a moment, he nodded back and turned to Æmma, who shot Lothíriel a satisfied look from beside him.

They knew, then. She took a shaky breath and sipped at her wine. Valar willing, Lord Aldor would not hold Éomer’s supposed fickleness against her. Or him.

It took a great effort to keep herself calm. Her father spoke to her very little; Queen Arwen said not a word. Lothíriel wished she could make time fly, but she was stuck in her seat, taking measured bites of her boiled lamb and looking out at the long, crowded tables that ran the length of the hall. At least no one down there was paying her any mind, apart from the occasional glance from Lord Aldor and Æmma. She’d taken care to dress just well enough to invite appreciation, not fixation, from other eyes. That had made Éomer’s intense look all the more reassuring.

But her stomach still churned. Lothíriel forced down another bite and swept her eyes over the crowd. There were so many ladies here prettier than she.

Lothíriel’s hand spasmed; her spoon rattled against her dish. What if Éomer decided he had erred in choosing her?

Imrahil reached over and pressed her trembling hand. He smiled soothingly at her, and she did her best to smile back before pulling her hand away, leaving her spoon behind. She was done eating.

It felt like an age before Faramir stood to raise a toast, and Lothíriel’s heartbeat galloped in her chest. She leaned forward in her seat, and was instantly caught in Éomer’s gaze. For the life of her, she could not look away.

“My lords, my ladies,” Faramir began. He bowed to Éowyn, who was seated as his side. “As I have been blessed, so too may you all be, if you are not so already.” He turned to his other side and gripped Éomer’s shoulder. Éomer, startled, turned away from Lothíriel to look up at Faramir. “And to one I may now call brother, I wish you joy and will call you cousin as well!” Faramir pulled Éomer to his feet.

A grin spread across Lothíriel’s face and a giggle bubbled out of her throat at the look on Éomer’s face. His eyes were circles in his face; his brows disappeared into his hairline as he stared at Faramir.

Imrahil helped her to her feet. The whole company swiveled their gazes from her to Éomer and back again, but she ignored them as her father accompanied her to Faramir’s side. Éomer sucked in a breath, and then he laughed aloud and reached out for Lothíriel’s hands.

She slid hers in his. “You’d be mad to refuse,” she murmured, and his bright eyes twinkled as he squeezed her fingers.

“Mad? I am too happy to know anything else!” he answered. He drew her hands to his lips and kissed them.

“Now let it be known that Éomer of Rohan has plighted his troth to Lothíriel of Dol Amroth!” Faramir finished, and he raised his glass. The company cheered, and Lothíriel squeaked when Éomer pulled her to him and covered her mouth with his. Her eyes shut and she kissed him back, smiling. His beard tickled her chin, and his arms wound about her waist.

When they parted, gasping for breath, Faramir cleared his throat. Éomer wrinkled his nose at Faramir, but he let go of Lothíriel’s waist, only keeping hold of one of her hands. “Do not try and take her away! You will find me loath to part from her,” he warned.

“No need for that,” Faramir said lightly. He kissed Lothíriel’s cheek. “Cousin, I wish you joy.” He settled her in his own seat and he moved down to take hers. Éomer sat beside her happily, and the company surged forward to congratulate them.

Lothíriel was glad she’d lost her appetite, for the flow of well-wishers was endless. A great number of Rohirrim, who spoke varying degrees of Westron and Rohirric, bowed deeply to their king and smiled at Lothíriel, who thanked them all. When Éomer whispered to her how to give thanks in his tongue, she switched to using that with his countrymen, though the words felt strange in her mouth and more than one Rohir’s lips twitched at her pronunciation. But Éomer looked at her proudly.

When Aunt Ivriniel reached them, she gave Éomer a sharp look. “I hope my niece does not grow to regret her hasty choice,” she said. “You made quick work of it, King Éomer.” Her gaze softened when Lothíriel scooted closer to Éomer and narrowed her eyes at her aunt. “But I am glad to see her happy. May the Valar bless you both.”

“Thank you, Lady Ivriniel,” Éomer said. He gave Lothíriel a bemused look as Ivriniel went over to her brother.

At last, the crowd settled and Lothíriel was able to greet her sister-to-be at her left hand. Éowyn had sat quietly while Éomer and Lothíriel had received their congratulations, but as soon as Lothíriel turned to her, she smiled and hugged her.

“Lothíriel, I am glad!” Éowyn exclaimed. Her bright smile was dazzling. “It is enough for my brother to be happy. But now I will have a sister whom I already love.” She kissed Lothíriel’s cheeks.

Lothíriel blinked back sudden tears. Éowyn’s joy was as bright as it had been yesterday when she had wedded Faramir. “Thank you,” she said in Rohirric, and Éowyn laughed.

“It is a good start,” she said. She raised her glass to Lothíriel and Éomer. “To your happiness!”

Éomer squeezed Lothíriel’s hand under the table. “Amen,” he said. Lothíriel beamed, heart full.

“Amen.”

 

* * *

After the meal began to break up, Éomer pulled Lothíriel up and to a doorway at the end of the dais. He pulled the door shut behind them, and they were swallowed by darkness. Lothíriel’s heart raced as Éomer cupped the back of her neck.

But he did not kiss her.

“You minx,” he murmured. “Did you know the whole time?”

“What?” she said breathlessly.

“I spent all those hours not knowing what your father would say, and there you were, laughing! If I were not so happy, I would be half inclined to be upset,” he teased.

Lothíriel giggled. “It was my father’s idea,” she said, “but I thought it fitting. You were hardly any better! Kissing me in the garden like that, with no warning! Tsk tsk!” She stepped back against the wall and reached out until she found Éomer’s shoulders. This time, she drew him close, and she stood on her toes to kiss him.

Éomer hummed hungrily when she pulled him flush against her. One of his hands slid along her arm to wind it around his neck before gripping her waist. His other hand on her neck was large and hot against her skin, and goosebumps spread from his touch.

When they parted, Éomer rested his forehead against hers. She ran her fingers across his face.

“You’re smiling,” she said.

“So are you,” he pointed out. “I can hear it in your voice.” His hand traced her lips all the same, and she shuddered at the touch. “And yet I would see it. Will you walk in outside with me, my lady?”

“Just for the sake of my smile?” she teased gently.

“Nay,” he murmured. He pressed a kissed to her forehead. “I would see the stars in your eyes. Will you come with me, Lothíriel?”

Her heart leapt. It was the first time he had called her by her name. She wound her hand in his and tugged him towards the gardens.

“Éomer,” she said, “I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I hope you've enjoyed my little romp through Emyn Arnen! I had a really fun time writing this (and reading it... #guiltyascharged), so thanks for sticking with me!
> 
> There are quite a few details that didn't get put in the story, thanks to the limited POV. If I'm ever feeling ambitious, I might write some of them out to give a clearer view of how the rest of the afternoon went after Lothíriel's conversation with her father.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who left kudos, followed the story, and commented! Have a wonderful day!!


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